


Our Lady of Death

by ThePlotNinja



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Religious, Attempted Rape, Blasphemy, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Porn With Plot, Sexual Assault, Sexual Harassment, Sold to the church, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-04-20 05:54:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4776116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePlotNinja/pseuds/ThePlotNinja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Olivia, a young woman working at her family's tavern, finds herself on a path she had never considered a possibility - a life devoted to the church. However, all is not as it seems, and she soon finds that this Order is quite different from any other...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Spoiler alert: it's a sex cult.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Joys of wisdom

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so. I came up with a weird, yet hot, porn scene in my brain, but I left it on the stovetop too long and it developed into this soupy goodness. Don't get me wrong - there will be so much porn once I get into the thick of it. But somehow plot got in the way, and a whole sex cult developed in the story like bacteria on chicken.  
> Please don't hate me - I am atheist, and as such I am aware I risk hurting people's feelings by writing religious people in such a manner. If it makes you feel any better, other Orders in their universe will denounce them too.  
> Is there porn yet? [No]  
> Is there sexual tension? [Yes, chapter 2]  
> When will you next update? [Sunday 13th September, probably]  
> Can I suggest...? [Please do]
> 
> I hope you enjoy; I certainly am.
> 
>  
> 
> With all my love,  
> -The Plot Ninja

Breathe in, stale ale.

Breathe out. Slow. Steadying.

Breathe in, pungent sweaty male aroma.

Breathe out.

Then Olivia straightened up, emerging from her temporary shelter under the bar, and plastered on her best Cheshire-cat grin. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’

The man was big and beardy, with an ale-soaked wet patch sitting just below the chin. If Olivia had been asked to describe a pirate, he probably wouldn’t be too far off.

The man had had a long gaze across the tavern, but at her words he turned and raked his eyes up and down her form. ‘Hell of a question that,’ he leered at her. ‘I’m sure there’s plenty you could do for me, sweetheart. Any suggestions?’

Olivia was well used to this sort of comment, but somehow never had a good answer for these moments, so she found herself simply staring back blankly.

The man watched her expression for a minute, then decided he was wasting his time. ‘Half-pint,’ he grunted.

‘Sure.’

While she was filling a mug with amber liquid from the tap, she followed his eye-line back across the room to where it had been originally, settling on her sister, who was currently in the midst of the crowd and apparently being very entertaining indeed. All had beers or meals or wines, and the scene was jolly, toasting all around and crude jokes being flung here there and back again. Trisha was a little older than herself. They had the same long, dark-blonde hair, but she had inherited the voluptuousness from their mother that Olivia lacked, and the fiery personality to boot. She currently held a brimming cup in her left hand and a middle-aged man’s shoulder in the other, leaning on the sitting man, and when she swayed, she almost engulfed him in her bosoms. The man didn’t seem to mind this occasional threat of suffocation, however, and he rested his hand on the lowest part of the young woman’s lower back happily. Olivia marvelled at her sister’s ability to rile the men into a round of singing; she envied that kind of confidence.

 ‘Girl!’ boomed the man, and Olivia realised she had been holding the pirate-man’s cup, staring like a stunned rabbit, for several moments; she blushed. ‘Sorry sir,’ she said, and quickly pushed the mug towards him. It slopped on the counter a little, and he wrinkled his nose at the puddle, taking his ale with a snide comment of ‘No tip for you, I’d think.’

No tip for you, wasn’t that about right. Their father would tan her hide when he realised how little she had made this night. She picked up a dishcloth and started cleaning up the counter, scrubbing fastidiously at where the wood stuck the worst.

She’d think it wasn’t fair, but she knew it wasn’t the case. Her sister might be physically better-suited for this job, and better at the story-telling and the jibing and the sly innuendo one needs to keep drunks entertained and thus away from the dark mood that sometimes takes over taverns; but Olivia saw how Trisha worked at it and knew it was no right of hers to be jealous. She too could roll her hair at night, could bind herself tight into waist-clinchers and sew delicate lace in such low places on her clothing, if she was of a mind to. She could even learn to tolerate hands on her, train herself the way their mother once tamed wild kittens to accept human touches. Trisha was good at working because she wished herself to be good at working, and Olivia couldn’t be envious of that.

It didn’t stop it hurting, though, when a young, handsome man would stride into the bar and make conversation with her for a change, and her answers back came shyly and hesitantly; then he would turn to the older sister, assuming lack of interest from the younger, and he would be whisked away from her in a heartbeat, lost in the mystery of the curly-haired beauty with such wild stories and a wicked-sharp tongue. When she was younger, Olivia thought that one of the local boys might have had an eye for her, for he was forever on her heels and making conversation. Here he was now, though, in the tavern like the rest of them – she could half-see him in the jungle of jolly faces, love-struck and dopey whenever Trisha passed him a glass or a glance.

A man in a black cloak, she realised, had taken up residence in the corner table in the shadows without her noticing, and was now sitting there staring at her. She wondered how long he had sat there – no tip from him either, she would wager, and was surprised at the bitterness in her thoughts. _Watch it,_ she thought. _I’m too young to be a bitter spinster yet._ So she plastered on a smile once more and walked over to him, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Good evening sir, can I bring you anything?’

The man stared at her for a few seconds more, and she had the sudden urge to skitter back. She was used to looks, but this wasn’t the type of stare she usually got in this place. It was like he was trying to see through to her bones, examine her close enough to see the humours she was made from.

‘Yes,’ he said finally, and it was a slow “yes”, a considered “yes”, and she could tell he wasn’t from around here. ‘A bowl of soup and some bread, if you would.’

‘Certainly. A cup of ale to wash it down?’ she offered with a smile, sweet as she could. _Up-sell,_ she could hear her father counsel. _Up-sell as much as you can, squeeze out every penny._ ‘We have fine whiskeys, too, if that be more your taste.’

The man sighed. ‘If I only could. But I’m afraid brothers of the cloth must resist such temptations, especially on Fridays as it is today. The soup alone will be fine, my dear.’

Olivia turned pale, silently cursing her thoughtlessness; only now did she recognise the black cloth he wore as that of a monk. ‘O-o-oh, right,’ she stuttered and gasped. ‘My apologies, Brother, I did not-’

He waved a hand. ‘No harm done, no harm done.’

The more he spoke, the more of his accent she caught. Was he a northerner? They got all sorts in here, travelling their way through. He looked a bit northern perhaps, short black hair and such serious dark eyes like she’d never seen. His skin was pale, and from what she could see he was a relatively short man, though of course the loose cloth robe and the dim lighting blended the man well into the shadows. Good looking too, though as soon as she had the thought she buried it as deep as she could – imagine, thinking that of a religious man.

He had been looking at her with a strange glint in his eye, one that made her stomach flip, though she could not put a name to the expression; now he turned his head on the side. ‘That will conclude my order, dear girl.’

She’d been zoning out again.

‘Oh! Yes, sorry, I... sorry.’ She spun on her heel and rushed off to fetch his soup, blushing as she saw the start of a sharkish smirk stretch across the man’s face. No tip, indeed.

 

Their father had taken the evening off, as rare an occurrence as September snow; but as he was usually the one to close up the shop, the two tavern-serving sisters were unsure when to close up the place. As such, they were probably serving much later than they regularly would, much to the delight of their rowdy patrons. Slowly, though, the crowd dismantled itself until even the most enthusiastic punter admitted it was time to go, staggering out with a cheery wave.

The black-cloaked monk, however, stayed where he was.

The sisters huddled together next to the bar, pretending to count the evening’s earnings and not look at him. ‘Awful bad luck to throw out a monk, I should think,’ Trisha whispered regretfully.

‘Agreed. But the waking hour is closer than I’d like as it is... But, no, you’re right. We must let him stay.’

‘I offered him a room already, he turned it down.’

A moment of silence passed between the young women.

‘Perhaps we could drop a suggestion... Subtle-like, you know?’

Olivia winced. ‘Even so, if he takes offence...’

‘Yeah...’

The luck-bringing monk in question lifted the drink of water he’d been nursing for an hour to his lips, still gazing obliviously off into the empty air before him.

Trisha shook her head reluctantly. ‘Let’s finish this counting and cleaning, and see where we are after that.’

But Olivia had no chance to nod her agreement, as their father chose that moment to descend the stairs and burst through the tavern door. She was surprised to see him looking so tense; over the past year or so his face had seemed to sag and grey, but this evening had been particularly rough, it seemed. ‘Evening, girls.’ His tone made an attempt at cheeriness, but fell flat.

He was followed through the door by a tall wick of a man, with mousey hair and the same black robes as the monk in the corner, though he seemed older. His eyes fell on each of the girls in turn, and Olivia felt the same bone-deep judgement she had received from the other man, as though her very soul was being weighed, but he smiled pleasantly as he joined their group.

‘This is Father Michael,’ he told them. The Father’s eye seemed to twitch a little at this introduction but he did not react to it further. ‘And these, sir, are my daughters.’

‘The Lord has blessed you with lovely offspring, Mister Innman.’ Father Michael’s voice was prim and polite, and each word had a measured quality to it. ‘Miss Trisha, I presume?’ He ducked a short bow towards Trisha. ‘And Miss Olivia. Wonderful.’ Olivia curtseyed and out the corner of her eye saw Trisha do the same.

The Father then turned and shook their father’s hand. ‘I will return the day after the morrow, then?’

‘Wonderful.’ The borrowed word sounded strange when it came from her father, Olivia thought; he did not have the cultured tone to carry it off,  instead bouncing the syllables so they clashed into one another awkwardly.

Father Michael nodded. ‘Then we shall leave you now. A good evening to you all. Come, Brother James.’

‘Good evening,’ the man called James lilted as a farewell as he stood and followed Father Michael out. Olivia was sure his eyes lingered just a little longer than was strictly proper on her before he left, and she felt herself blush once more. No one else, however, seemed to notice a thing.

 

‘What was that about, Papa?’ Trisha chirped the moment the tails of their black robes had disappeared from view. ‘What were you doing talking to monks?’

The stout man swatted her questions away with a hand. ‘Never mind that for now,’ he growled, though his aura of distraction still prevented him from sounding too gruff. ‘What were the takings for tonight?’

‘It was a slow one I’m afraid.’ Olivia hated bearing the news, but she motioned to the small stacks of coins in neat rows.

‘I see.’ The tavernkeeper seemed to consider the piles for a few moments before looking up at her once more. ‘And how much of this was your extra earnings?’

The girls exchanged looks. Olivia had been dreading this moment.

‘Well?’

After a few beats of silence Olivia opened her mouth to speak again, but Trisha cut in. ‘You mustn’t be hard on her, it really was a slow evening, and  no one was ordering much no matter how much we pushed...’

‘Silence, girl! I asked your sister.’ The distracted aura was now well and truly history. He pointed his finger at Olivia. ‘How much?’

She wasn’t brave enough to answer aloud, simply murmured something under her breath.

His patience, what little there ever was, was spent. ‘SPEAK UP!’

‘MINUS TWO!’ she cried out, and for a moment she could swear her father’s eyes would pop from his head.

‘Minus... HOW IN THE SWEET LORD’S NAME...’

 ‘I’m sorry!’ she sobbed. ‘I got three copper in tips, but then that monk, Brother James, he ordered soup, and you know it’s terrible luck to charge monks for their food, and so I paid for his food and I thought I could make it up, but there just weren’t enough people...’

Her father’s face had contorted and reddened, and he raised his hand as if to hit her; she shuddered and flinched away, preparing for the sting across her cheek.

The strike never came, though.

In fact, all at once it seemed, the tension was being released from the barkeep’s body like air from a pigskin ball. It was nearly comical to see the colour traverse back down from a red so intense it bordered indigo, back down to a mere flush on the tavernkeeper’s face. The hand came down, alright, but it rested on the top of her head instead, and he patted her twice. ‘I’ve done the right thing,’ he muttered to himself, and then he smiled. ‘It’s fine, girl, I’ve fixed it all already.’

The mood swing took Olivia by surprise. ‘You’ve...’

‘Off to bed, the both of you,’ their father said smoothly, a distracted, glazed look back on his face, though this time more serene than before. ‘We’ll discuss this further tomorrow.’

 _It must have something to do with those monks,_ Olivia pondered, though what, she could not decide. Trisha led their way out the private back door that lead to their family’s rooms, and she followed; at the last minute she thought about pressing her father for more information, but when she looked back she saw him pouring himself a lonely mugful of ale, and she shivered as she heard him quietly repeat to himself, ‘I’ve done the right thing.’

Sleep was not a willing visitor that night.

 

Their mother was the first awake in the morning, though Olivia sprang up to investigate the moment she heard banging pots. ‘What are you up to, Mama?’ she asked as she entered the kitchen.

‘I thought I’d make you some porridge, sweetheart. I know porridge is your favourite.’

Her mother was a tall woman in her middle years, crinkles around her brown eyes just beginning to deepen when she smiled wide, like she did now. Her nightgown was floor-length, and clean but obviously well-worn, with fraying at the hems and patches here and there; she wore it like a princess in a ball gown, unmistakably beautiful even with her sleep-ruffled blonde hair and slight stoop in her walk.

Olivia beamed. ‘Porridge would be great, Mama. Thank you.’ She sat down at the kitchen table and watched as her mother bustled around the pantry to find oats and salt. ‘I don’t suppose you know what Papa was talking to the monk about last night, do you?’

‘Monk?’ her mother queried with a laugh. ‘You do have such strange dreams, my girl.’

‘It wasn’t a dream,’ Olivia insisted. ‘Last night there was a monk in the tavern, and Papa was talking to another one up here.’

Her mother hummed. ‘How odd.’

Olivia sighed. ‘Never mind.’

She thought about the night before, the monk that had sat and watched her from his corner table with wolfish eyes, and wondered about the agreement Father Michael may have made with her father. The grocer had told her his honey came from the monks who lived near Hilsbridge, about two days’ travel from them; she supposed it was no stretch of the imagination that they might make mead too. They didn’t yet sell mead in the tavern, but it was asked for often enough.

She was snapped out of her thoughts by the clang of a pot as it hit the ground, and she rushed over to her mother’s side. ‘Mama? Are you alright?’

The woman’s hazelnut eyes had become unfocussed and confused, and at Olivia’s words she clung to the girl as if terrified gravity would reverse and lift her to the ceiling if she did not hang on. ‘I... I thought I saw a bug,’ she murmured vaguely.

Olivia took a second to draw in some inner calm. ‘Here, Mama, you sit down,’ she then said, gently taking a wooden spoon from her mother’s clawed hand and guiding her towards a kitchen chair. ‘I’ll make the porridge.’

‘But the... the bug!’

‘It flew away.’

It took some convincing, but the older woman followed Olivia’s guidance and sat down in the chair, changing her grasp from her daughter’s arm to the side of the table but holding on in the same death-grip.

Olivia made the porridge and served them up bowls of it, glad to see her mother relax as she started on the meal. Her father entered shortly after, clutching his head and making no effort at conversation but gladly taking the bowlful of porridge she passed him and slowly spooning it down.

They breakfasted in silence for a while, until her father, who seemed to have regained his colour a little, finally said, ‘I need to talk to you about something.’

Olivia had finished her food, and she pushed her bowl forwards a little. ‘Yes, Papa?’

The tavernkeeper looked at his wife, a range of emotions flitting across his face, before he said softly, ‘Claire, honey, why don’t you go back to bed for a little while? It’s still early.’

He was fixed with a stare that both saw him and didn’t, and a smile that was not made for anyone in particular. ‘I made porridge. Isn’t it good?’

His wince would have been unperceivable to anyone who did not know him well. ‘Yes, sweetheart, it is; but...’

‘Perhaps she could stay there, Papa?’ Olivia asked quietly. ‘She had a bit of a fright before, a bug... I’ll help her back to bed in a little while.’

Her father opened his mouth to object, but closed it again. ‘Fine.’

Olivia waited.

It seemed to take several attempts for her father to formulate exactly what he wanted to say; a couple of false starts were the only thing that punctured the silence between them. She didn’t want to push him.

It seemed this conversation would not be about mead.

‘I’ve... been contacted by a potential suitor for your sister,’ he said at last.

‘... The monk?’ Olivia asked with a tone of disbelief.

Her father shook his head. ‘A young man in the silk trade. It... It would be very advantageous for her.’ Then he paused, unsure of how to continue.

After a few moments of processing this, Olivia smiled. ‘Well, that’s... that’s great!’ she said, truly pleased. ‘Was she pleased when you told her?’

‘I haven’t told her.’

‘Oh...’ Olivia’s forehead furrowed while she thought. ‘... Why?’

‘We can’t confirm the match yet. We can’t afford the dowry.’

‘Oh.’

A couple more spans of silence passed between them.

Then, ‘So Father Michael is going to loan you the dowry?’ she asked, trying to fit all this together.

‘Not... exactly.’ The man took a deep breath, then decided to let it out. ‘Father Michael was here to offer to pay the dowry in full, plus a small sum to your mother and I... In exchange for you.’

She couldn’t have heard him right. ‘In what sense?’

‘In whatever sense it is that the church “gets” you. I believe you would train to become a nun, though that is up to them, I suppose.’

‘Wait...’ This couldn’t be right; she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘You want me to be sent to become a nun so that Trisha can marry a merchant... That’s...’ Her chest heaved. ‘Well what about you and Mama? You can’t run the tavern by yourself! And who would look after Mama?’

‘I know.’ Her father’s face was grave and grey. ‘We’d have to figure something out. But we can’t let this marriage opportunity slip away from Trisha. She’s three-and-twenty now, and though the offers are still coming in, they are slowing. This is the best offer she’s had by far; and she’s even met the man. And she liked him, too, I believe, if the begging for an evening off was anything to go by.’

Olivia blinked away a tear. ‘But... We could find another way. And are you just going to close the tavern down? I could...’

‘Minus two coppers isn’t enough to keep the tavern afloat, my girl.’ His tone wasn’t mocking, nor was it harsh; but it was firm, and final, and there was nothing Olivia could say against it, because it was true. ‘This way, I can be sure that both my daughters will be taken care of, one way or another, and your mother and I only have ourselves to feed and clothe. It makes sense, dear.’

It did.

Olivia hated it.

Her eyes were fogging up with tears now, and she felt the tension that comes before a fit of sobs constrict her chest. ‘I...’ She inhaled deeply. ‘I always thought I would marry. Have children. Have a life.’ The palm of her hand came up to squish into her eye, as if she could wipe away all of her tears at once, or perhaps push them back into the tear duct they were trying to escape from. ‘I’ve never felt like I was called to the church. Are you... Are you sure this is the only way?’

Her father nodded. ‘I’m so sorry, my sweet Olivia,’ he said, and he did something he rarely ever did: he got up, knelt down beside her chair and wrapped his arms around her. Somewhat awkwardly. It was the thought that counted, though, and Olivia squeezed him back, letting the rest of her tears soak into his shirt.

A thought occurred to her. ‘We can’t tell Trisha,’ she realised sadly. Her father pulled back to look at her, and she explained, ‘She’d never go along with it. Not if she knew it was an exchange.’

Her father’s eyes were glistening a little too. ‘Whatever you think is best. I’ll leave it to you to tell her then, shall I?’

‘Tell me what?’ said a voice from the doorway. Trisha witnessed the scene before her with puzzlement.

‘I made porridge!’ their mother explained to her happily. ‘It’s good! It’s her favourite.’ She grinned.

Trisha smiled back. ‘Looks delicious, Mama. I hope there’s enough for me.’ Then she looked back at Olivia, then her father. ‘Tell me what?’

‘My dream has come true,’ Olivia said, and felt her heart crimp like paper with each word she stamped out. ‘I’m joining the church!’

‘You’re...’ Trisha’s mouth was opened wide. ‘Why?’

‘It... felt like the right thing to do.’ This, at least, was honest.

‘Huh. You’ve never...’ She shook her head, then forced a cheery grin onto her face, pegging it there with pure willpower. ‘That’s fantastic news, little sister. When do you go?’

‘When _do_ I go?’ repeated Olivia, this time directing it to her father.

‘Tomorrow.’

Silence in the room for a moment. Then, taking it in her stride as well as she could, she repeated it.

‘I’m going away tomorrow.’


	2. In nomine patris et filii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia and Brother James set off for her new life. He causes grief on the way.

It felt like the shortest day of Olivia’s life. Packing had taken but five minutes, she was sure; she didn’t think nuns kept particularly many personal items. She had gone to see various friends and neighbours for the last time, all of whom were most surprised about her decision, but, they assured her, if she felt it was her calling then they were dually impressed by her and pleased for her. That had taken an hour or two at most. She had served lunch for the tavern guests, then bustled around changing bedsheets and taking money from new visitors; then her work shift began, middled and ended and it was bedtime.

And now she was on horseback, sitting in front of large saddle packs with all the possessions she owned in the world.

She had said goodbye, right?

Of course she had said goodbye; Trisha had squeezed her tight and promised to write whenever she came into any amount of paper, and kept squeezing and hadn’t let go until Olivia reminded her with a gasp that she would still need her lungs at her new home, and it would be a bonus if they were reasonably undamaged. Her mother hadn’t left her bed, but had gently stroked her cheek and promised her that she was one of the most beautiful fairies she had ever seen. Her father, though; no sentimentality today. He ensured the packs were tied on tightly, that she had snacks for the road and a drinking pouch in a place it wouldn’t leak, and ensured the packs were tied on tightly again, then he had said a simple “fare well” and disappeared inside the house.

She felt numb somehow, like she’d fallen into a dream and she was still deciding whether it was a nightmare or not. It wasn’t good, she pondered to herself, but it wasn’t necessarily awful. She would have a bed and food and water, and she would never have to worry about money again. That was all good, right?

She felt the prickle of threatening tears again anyway, so she pushed it all down again, taking refuge in the simple emotional numbness.

Both the Father and Brother James had been there to pick her up, and when she had seen the two horses she was surprised. ‘Is there no carriage?’ she had asked them, then blushed at the impertinence of her own question.

Father Michael gave her a mild look, raising his eyebrows. ‘We came by carriage, yes,’ he said in his clipped voice. ‘However, you and Brother James will be travelling back today, whereas I have further business in this village for the next couple of days and will require the carriage for the goods I intend to take back; therefore,  you will be riding on horseback. Is that a problem?’

It most certainly was. ‘No, of course not,’ she replied meekly. ‘Sorry.’

The two monks shared a significant look between them, though she could not read what it was.

Trisha had butted in then, with a fairly loud ‘Excuse me!’ She waited until the two men had turned and given her their full attention. ‘Do you mean to tell me that my sister will be travelling alone with this man?’

‘Trisha,’ Olivia had hissed. ‘I’ll be okay, I promise. Just... Shhh!’

But too late; Father Michael had rounded on her. ‘You realise what you’re implying, don’t you?’ he asked, a cold menace in his voice that one would not suspect from a holy man. ‘Do you mean to tell me that you consider a brother of the cloth, a servant of Our Lord And God Himself, to be so untrustworthy as to not be able to resist that most evil of sins a man can commit on a woman?’

Trisha was a bold girl, always had been, and she would be cowed by no one; however, a blush fell on her cheeks, the only outward sign of any abashedness. ‘I only meant-’

‘I trust Brother James to obey whatever rules I have set out for him,’ the Father stated frostily. ‘His life is forfeit to God, and like us all, he would martyr himself rather than break any of those rules, for rewards in this world matter little compared to the torture he would endure in the next.’

Trisha shivered, glanced at Brother James and Olivia, then looked resolutely down at her boots. ‘Right,’ she said, trying to prove she had not lost that debate and failing miserably.

Father Michael had wished them best of luck on their journey, then disappeared.

Trisha had backed Brother James up against the horse’s side, threatened him with very this-worldly pain if he failed to protect her sister, had given said sister one last hug, then disappeared inside, unwilling to watch Olivia leave.

 

So here she was, on a horse.

Olivia had never ridden a horse before. Luckily this one, a black-and-white mottled stallion, seemed to be either smart enough to sense this and simply follow Brother James’ horse, or else dumb enough that it had no better idea than to follow Brother James’ horse. Either way, it seemed to work out just fine. She had started out by being surprised how comfortable it was to ride, the broad leather saddle like a gentleman’s armchair, her belongings stacked behind her to form a back rest, and the jarring motions of the horse became gentle swaying to her once she’d figured out how to roll her body along with it.

Now, though, a few hours into their trek, her muscles were beginning to ache, and felt blisters beginning to sprout on various parts of her body. There was one solid corner packed in her belongings, not sharp, but uncomfortably placed so she could not lean back against it without a lump being pressed maliciously into her back. It was overcast, and she was glad it didn’t look like rain, but the sun seemed to be amplified rather than diminished through the clouds so she found herself squinting against the glare.

‘How far have we to go?’ she asked the monk’s figure, having to repeat the question when he did not hear her and adding, ‘A friend said it was two day’s travel away.’ She desperately hoped this was not true.

‘Still pretty far,’ he admitted. ‘It’s two days by coach for sure. If this weather holds, we should be able to make it tonight, but it’ll be a long ride.’ He glanced back at her with his dark eyes. ‘Come ride alongside me.’

‘Can’t,’ she confessed. ‘I don’t know how to ride a horse.’

James gave a low chuckle. ‘I did wonder. Father Mycroft thought it would be fine, but of course his brainpower was going down other avenues at the time; I don’t know if he thought it all the way through.’ He looked her up and down. ‘You seem to be doing alright, though.’

 _Am I?_ she wondered to herself. It didn’t really feel like it.

‘We should stop and graze the horses again soon,’ James told her, then pointed into the distance. ‘Looks like a likely spot up there.’

When they reached the spot he had pointed out, with a green patch of long grass and James helped her down from the horse. ‘Whoops,’ he gasped, looking away from her in a show of modesty. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Olivia.’

Olivia looked down and noticed that her dress had pulled a little low in her disembarkation. Her cleavage must have been directly in the monk’s face when he had lifted her down. She pulled it back up and blushed deeply. ‘It’s... it’s alright,’ she told him. ‘I’m decent again.’ Her face felt red hot.

He turned back to her with a bright smile, embarrassment seemingly forgotten. ‘Why don’t we have some lunch while we’re here?’ he asked her, and she nodded agreement, still mortified although the monk was playing it off like nothing had happened.

They ate a little bread and cheese in silence, she being too nervous to speak the first word and he seeming content to simply watch the birds, and the horses, and her out the corner of his eye when he thought she wasn’t looking. Finally, the quiet was too much for her and she burst out, ‘So, where are you from?’

He took his time finishing his bready mouthful, then raised his eyebrows at her. ‘Why?’

‘I...’ she faltered. ‘I was just curious.’

He was chewing again now, but he fixed his dark eyes on her while he did so, unblinking. It was eerie and unnerving, and she shuffled and shifted her gaze away from his uncomfortably. ‘I wasn’t trying to be rude,’ she told him. ‘Just forget I said anything.’

He did not move, just chewed and stared.

Perhaps a minute of this passed, his intense eyes never moving from her face no matter how she moved, or when she edged herself away along the grass; then Olivia had finally had enough, and shouted ‘Stop it!’

Finally the monk moved, chuckling and lying back on the grass. ‘You _are_ shelled up, aren’t you? Can’t bare someone just _looking_ at you without getting scared.’ He flashed her a toothy grin. ‘We’re going to have fun with you.’

She wondered what he meant by that. ‘I wasn’t scared,’ she retorted; it was true, mostly. ‘It was just... odd. You’re an odd person.’

‘You have no idea.’ James spoke this with droll satisfaction, then tore at his bread with his teeth once more, reminding her of a dog tearing meat from a bone. ‘I know!’ he said suddenly, sitting bolt upright. ‘A question for a question!  You ask me one, I’ll ask you one, fair is fair.’ His accent turned it into a rocking tune.

Olivia studied him warily. ‘Alright,’ she said finally.

‘Ladies first,’ the monk told her suavely.

‘Where are you from?’ she asked immediately.

‘Londontown.’

She hit him with the most unimpressed look she could muster.

‘Aaaand before that,’ he continued as if he had planned to all along, ‘Bristol for study. Before that, I took my orders in Dublin. Ireland, you know. And before that, my parents hailed from a village north of Dublin City, where I was born and frolicked in fields and farmed wheat and chickens. And before I was born, I came from... Well,’ he said, wetting his bottom lip with his tongue. ‘I came from where all babies come from. I can explain it to you, if you want. I’m afraid I dislike the metaphors, birds and bees and such, so it’ll be the explicit version...’

‘That’s fine,’ she said hurriedly, her hand raising to her forehead unconsciously while she felt a rush of red rise to her cheeks. ‘For a monk, you have a colourful manner about you.’

He smirked as if this was a familiar comment, and a complementary one at that. ‘My turn now? Alright. Before you left, did you have a suitor?’

Olivia felt cold. She hadn’t realised his questions were going to be quite so personal. ‘No,’ she admitted, falling quiet. He made a hand motion, however, and the message was clear: _you’re going to have to elaborate on that. Fair is fair._

‘I had... An interest, shall we say,’ she divulged, fingers plucking at the grass nervously. ‘A boy in my village... Well, a man I suppose, but he was a boy when I met him. And he liked me too. He was always dropping off a little extra flour here, a couple of loaves of bread there – he was a baker, like his father, and his uncle and grandfather were millers, so they always had plenty of business.’ She smiled fondly at the recollection.

She heard what she was sure was a bored grunt from the monk, but when she looked back at him he appeared just as engrossed as ever. ‘Anyway,’ she finished lamely, ‘he got in a fight over a debt and got poisoning of the blood from someone’s rusty knife.’

‘Wait, what?’ Brother James burst out. ‘That’s no way to tell a story!’ He looked deeply disappointed. ‘Next time, leave out all the sappy stuff and draw out the gore more. Goodness of God.’ With a sigh he said, ‘Alright, ask me the next one.’

Olivia was already sick of this game, but out of politeness she asked, ‘Alright, how about you? A woman, I mean. That is to say...’ She formulated the question again. ‘Had you fallen in love before you became a monk?’

In an instant the man’s face seemed to transform into a dark storm, clouds rolling over his eyes. It took him a moment before he could answer. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘I did.’

Olivia winced. ‘You don’t have to tell me,’ she said quietly, but ‘Oh, it’s fine,’ was the reply. ‘Fair is fair.’

James readjusted his cloak under him, splaying out his hood and then lying himself down onto it so he didn’t get tickled by the long grass. ‘I met her on a riverside. She was... beautiful.’ He spoke softly but clearly, deep in his memory. ‘Red hair like you’ve never seen, it flowed down her cheeks like waterfalls; and her smile – it could light a candle at a hundred paces.’ His eyes met hers then, and held them; she couldn’t help but notice how kind he looked now, and vulnerable, far from the buoyant man he had been just before. ‘I was still a young man then, perhaps seventeen. I was taking the wheat to market for my father, and she stopped me on the way and begged directions from me. I had no idea where it was she wanted to go, of course, but I told her to simply follow me, and I led her on a merry chase. And then when she found out I had lost us, she just laughed and gave me a peck on the cheek – see, she thought I had known in the beginning and had simply lost my way. So we spent most of the day like that, winding through big ol’ Dublin with me pushing my cart and her walking along beside.’

Olivia could see the scene in front of her: a younger but equally dashing James smiling, smitten, at a red-haired beauty, and she just as enamoured in him; his words transported her into the story.

‘But eventually we had to make it to market, and from there she found her bearings, and I thought her lost to me. However, I watched her buy meat from a local woman, and found out from her where my lovely Lucille lived. So I sold my wheat, and used the money to buy flowers, and that evening I went around to where the woman had directed me and asked at her house for her.

‘It was her father that answered, though.’ His eyes darkened once more. ‘A big man, taller than any I had ever seen, and he looked like a bull, and my flowers looked like a red cloth. And he asked me what it was, and I told him, I would like to call on Lucille.’ He shook his head, his eyebrows furrowed. ‘Now that was a mistake.’

‘What did he do?’

‘Well, he flew into a rage, as a bull of a man might. Told me Lucille was engaged, she had been since birth, and who was I to try and steal her away, and a farmer’s boy to boot. He told me he’d kill me if he saw me again. Then he near did, with a rain of fists on me, but I escaped him.’

Olivia waited for the next part of his tale, eyes wide.

‘I did not stay away though.’ His smile was mischievous now. ‘I called up to her, and she flew down through the servants’ quarters to see me. She fell into my arms, told me she did not want the man she was to marry, for he was old and cruel and she feared he would abuse her. So we made a plan to sneak away together, and we would cross to Wales together, for I had a cousin in Swansee who would take us in. So we planned for it for two days, and each night we would meet and conspire, and her kiss on my cheek would be all the energy I needed for the next day. I had sent word to my father already, and I used the last of the money from the wheat to buy food and a horse.

‘But she did not meet me.’ He closed his eyes for this final chapter in his story. ‘I waited until the cockerel crowed and the morning shone yellow, but she did not meet me. And I asked after her to her father, but this time he did not answer, merely slammed his door in my face. It came out the next day –’ his voice was a whisper now – ‘that he had lost his temper when he figured out this plan. He lost his temper with her, and in his rage throttled her. He...’ James broke off for a moment. ‘He killed Lucille like a lamb to slaughter. His own daughter, imagine that. He hung, of course, but that was no consolation to me. After that, I was quite ruined for love.’ The monk paused. ‘I took up the cloth that very year.’

Olivia sat in shock at his tale, trying to digest its horridness. How could something so tragic happen to someone so young as seventeen? She exhaled. ‘Is that all true?’

‘No.’

The blank tone jarred her.

‘... What do you mean.’

James, now sitting back upright and examining his nails, repeated himself with a bored expression. ‘No. I made it up. It’s all lies. I flatter myself though, it’s quite a thrilling story.’ He winked at her then. ‘See? You draw out the action, really push the emotion, and you never, ever leave out the gore. People love gore. It’s in our nature.’

She leapt to her feet, disgusted. ‘You... I don’t believe this!’

‘Good for you!’ James drawled, as if talking to a very small child. ‘Believe no one but yourself, and even then be cautious.’ He looked up at her now, dark eagle eyes. ‘Now, three questions for me.’

‘I think not!’ she spat back. ‘Wait... Three?’

‘“Have you ever fallen in love”, “What did he do”, and “Is that all true”. Three questions. Fair is fair. Question one: have you ever had sex?’

Never in her life had she felt so insulted; she felt her heartbeat hasten and her fists clench. ‘No! Of course not!’

Brother James seemed perfectly relaxed. ‘Thought not,’ he  rejoined. ‘Question two –’

‘If you think I’m answering any more questions, you’re mad.’

‘Oh really?’

He was faster than she would have given him credit for; and though he was scantly taller than she, he seemed to loom over her now, as he moved forward into her space even as she moved back away from him. ‘Do you plan to ride your horse the rest of the way there?’ he mocked her, melodiously. ‘Which way _is_ Hilsbridge, my dear? Or even, which way back home? Better yet, how do you propose you ride there when you cannot even use reins?’

‘You’d leave me here?’ she gasped at him, agape.

He scoffed. ‘Of course not, Miss Olivia. You heard what the Father said before we left. On pain of otherworldly torment, and all that. But I would wait until you answered, even if it took a couple of hours. And, dear me...’ he glanced up at the sun then, although its exact whereabouts were still obscured by the thick grey clouds. ‘It would be getting far too dark to ride horses before we got there; we would have to rest at an inn. Though, they give free accommodation only to monks; you would have to sleep on the floor, or perhaps, snuggle in with me.’ His white teeth flashed then. ‘I do move about in my sleep, I hope that wouldn’t concern you much.’

She had been backed up against the tree now; he did not pin her there, but his gaze dared her to move. ‘Fine,’ she told him. ‘Ask your questions.’

‘Marvellous.’ He kept her gaze. ‘Question two: have you ever brought yourself to climax by your own hand?’

‘What sort of a monk are you?!’ she cried, then, ‘That’s not a question I wish to ask you, simply one I’m asking myself. I’m reporting you as soon as we get there, to whomever I can find who will listen!’

A slow blink.

‘No, I have not,’ she then snidely retorted. ‘That’s a sin.’

He looked closely at her. ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘I mean, I can see you’re lying, clear as the day –’

‘I’m not,’ she insisted, shrinking backwards against the tree bark.

‘You are.’ It was a statement. ‘But I’ll allow it, after all my answer was make-believe too. Don’t fret – God can forgive all sins once they are confessed. Even the abomination of a young lady with her hand between her own legs, bringing herself what only a husband should.’

She had no answer for this, and so she stared resolutely ahead. She would not rise to his bait.

‘Alright, then,’ he said, sounding a little disappointed. ‘Third and final question.’ Now he leaned in close, and Olivia found herself shivering as warm breath heated her cheek. ‘ _How_ did you bring yourself to climax?’

Olivia pulled away from him as far as she could.  ‘I told you,’ she said vehemently. ‘I never have.’

‘It’s a lie,’ he told her again, now putting a thumb and finger on her chin and forcing her to look directly at him. His face was not five inches from hers. ‘And does not answer this question, anyway. I did not ask _if_ you did, I asked _how_ you did it. If you’re not going to tell the truth, well...’ He smirked once more. ‘Then you’ll have to make it up.’

Her mind raced. He could not force her to answer him... But if she didn’t provide an answer, they would not continue on their journey. She could not think of the shame she would face if she had to share a bed with him. Perhaps she could explain vaguely to him what women in general might do? _No_ , she decided quickly. _That means he wins. I will not let him._

Then finally, her mind struck upon an idea as bright as lightning. She pushed away from him, walking towards the horses, and called back confidently, ‘My ears. I touched them, and just like that, I had sinned. Now, can we go?’

‘That’s...’ Brother James scowled, but as quick as a mood came over him it washed straight back off. ‘A lie.’ But he could not fault her; he had set the standard, and she had found her way around it. He stood still for a moment, watching her attempt to mount her steed, who ignored her and continued ripping up grass.

He could not deny her her prize. ‘Wait, Miss Olivia,’ he called to her finally, a bemused expression on his face. ‘Let me help you up.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How am I doing so far? Let me know <3  
> xoxo  
> GossipNinja


	3. Mind what is said

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fancy seeing you here.
> 
> The New Bombshells is my current (well... "current") work; however, for some reason, it's easier for me to write this one at the moment, so here's a random update. This story was meant to get much saucier and twistier much earlier on, but it grew in my brain - sorry. She'll get to the monastery eventually. And sauce will ensue.
> 
> Please note the tags - THEY HAVE BEEN UPDATED. Triggers everywhere, just, so many of the triggers.
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy, and please drop me a note! They are how I gain momentum when things get tricky.
> 
> Much love,  
> -The Plot Ninja

The journey was long and difficult, as promised. Brother James did not torment her any further, at least not with his words; but now she knew the improperness of his thoughts, Olivia could not shake her feeling of unease, nor could she stop thinking about it. She avoided his eye as much as she could, and whenever his lip turned up in an amused smirk she couldn’t help but think it was at her expense. They stopped the horses every hour or so to let them graze, and he would help her down each time – and every time, she would feel something like the fluttering of moth’s wings in her gut whenever he held her waist to slow her drop. A couple more times her dress dipped low across her bosom again; the style of dress was very much unsuited to mounting and dismounting horses. Each time it did, she blushed and covered herself again as smartly as she could. Except for a small lip curl, he showed no notice at this these times, instead turning his attentions to checking the horses and packs, and stretching his legs.

Her own legs seemed to be getting worse and worse. What had started off as a niggling tension in her thigh was turning into a constant twinge and becoming tender and sore. Without touching it, she could feel a blister at her inner knee where it was rubbing against something, though whenever she tried to pinpoint what so that she might cover it, she could not find the source. There was probably a large bruise on her back, too, where the edge of whatever wooden object it was in her bag hit her with every fourth or fifth trot of the horse. She ached all over.

The time did not seem to be passing at all, the sun indiscernible in the grey sky. Eventually, though, a pinkish tinge glazed the horizon. Olivia took this as an sign; _we must almost be there_ , she thought to herself gladly.

A village was coming into view, anyway, which was a good sign. She knew the monastery wouldn’t be too close to a village, since solitude was obviously part of the lifestyle, but this might be Hilsbridge, the small town next to which the monastery lay.

So she frowned with confusion when Brother James led them to the outer side of an inn, dismounted, and began to fasten his horse’s reins to a hitching post. ‘Why are we stopping here?’

‘It’ll get dark soon,’ James replied, disinterest in his lilting voice. ‘We’ve still another two hours, perhaps, before we reach our destination, and I believe it’ll be too hard on the horses to continue tonight.’ He huffed in amusement at her growing horror. ‘Don’t fret, I was only teasing before. It wouldn’t do to have our newest initiate already ill-spoken of in the nearest town before she ever even sees the inside of an abbey. I have the money for a room of your own.’

As he had spoken, he had come around to help Olivia down from her horse. The moment he allowed her to take her own weight, her shaky legs finally gave up the game, and she fell like a sack of potatoes into the dust. It felt as though her joints had disappeared and her bones had forgotten how to work together, and although her dappled horse’s heavy hooves made her nervous of being crushed, she could not build up the strength to force herself upright again.

The smirking Brother James, on his part, made no effort to help. ‘I see we arrived just in time, then. You look as though you are thoroughly defeated, Miss Olivia. I cannot decide if it’s the road or the horse who is the winner.’

Olivia gave herself a minute or so to rest; but she was aware she was drawing glances, and so, with pure willpower and belief, she forced herself back up onto her feet. ‘The road, I think,’ she said dryly. ‘Though I don’t doubt the horse was its co-conspirator. But let’s not stop here. Please, Brother James. We have to finish the journey tonight.’

He snorted, looking her up and down. ‘Look at yourself! You could no more complete this journey tonight than a mouse could slay a lion!’

‘It’ll be worse tomorrow,’ Olivia admitted truthfully. ‘I can feel it. I’m not used to horses. I’m bruised deep, and tomorrow I’m sure my joints will be like rock against rock. Please, I beg you.’

At this last implore, a flash of sharkishness appeared in his eyes, but it disappeared so quickly that she was not sure his expression had changed at all. ‘Beg all you want, my dear. The sun speaks against it; the horses speak against it; we’re up for a bit of rugged terrain which speaks against it too. And it seems your very body speaks against it,’ he added, already turning away to begin tending to the horses. ‘We are staying here tonight, and will complete the trek tomorrow. No discussions.’

‘But-’

‘I SAID NO DISCUSSIONS!’

This last was as much shouted as said. Olivia flinched back away from him, mouth agape. For a second his features had warped, his previously handsome face looking nigh sinister. Olivia’s heart raced in her chest, and she stood frozen; in that instant, she knew that this was not a man to cross.

A moment later, and his face had rearranged itself back into its own form. ‘Now then,’ he said calmly, as though nothing had passed between them but amiable conversation. He passed her a small handful of coins. ‘Go to the innkeeper, ask him for the rooms, and let him know you travel with a monk. I will take care of the horses, and I’ll employ the stable boy to help with our packs.’ There was no sign of the monstrous visage in his demeanour at all.

Olivia stood stunned a moment longer. Then, meekly, she nodded and stumbled to do as he instructed.

 

The innkeeper brought two bowls of thick and hearty stew to their table, and Olivia took in the smell of the meaty broth with pleasure. Sitting down had been an ordeal; her muscles seemed to have molded to the shape of the horse, and convincing them to straighten and the knees to bend had been a challenge, let alone persuading them to form the same shape as the chair. This luxury in front of her, though, she was long ready for. Her stomach made its own opinion on the matter known with a well-argued gurgle, and she couldn’t help but agree. She snatched up her spoon and plunged it deep into the viscous liquid.

Another spoon came sailing down upon her hand, hitting it with force and making a solid “whack” noise. With a surprised dog-like yip, she dropped her utensil and pulled her hand away from her assailant.

‘I believe,’ Brother James mused, ‘a prayer is customary before a meal, is it not?’

‘Oh. Sorry.’ _Not in my family,_ Olivia couldn’t help but think inwardly. Nonetheless, she followed the monk’s lead to press her hands together in front of her chest and bow her head.

‘Dear Lord God,’ James murmured just loudly enough for the prayer to reach her ears. ‘We thank you for your benevolence, that this day we might eat. Amen.’

‘Amen,’ Olivia repeated obediently. She watched James in her periphery until she was certain it was alright for her to eat, then with zealous movements she raised her head, seized her spoon once more, and began to tuck in to her meal.

Brother James talked a little during their meal, telling her they’d be leaving early the next morning and what she could expect once they were there; but Olivia could already feel her eyes drooping, and his accented voice was washing over her like ocean waves. His words floated in and out of her brain, leaving no hint of their meaning in their wake. The atmosphere of the tavern felt familiar, too, with flickering candles for light and a roaring fireplace making the space cozy, the heady smell of ale and stew, and companionable huddles of people at tables throughout the long, high-roofed room. The conversations blended into a low buzz punctuated only by the occasional eruption of laughter. Olivia found herself quite content to chew at the chunks of stew and allow her attention to drift away.

Which is perhaps why she didn’t notice the three men approaching their table until they were crowded around the end of the table and the first one had spoken right to her.

‘Hey there, pretty lady. What’s a fine girl like you doing travelling all by herself?’

She glanced up at him in surprise. He was a middle-sized, stocky man, maybe a decade older than herself, with a sparse brown beard that didn’t quite match his chin-length blond hair. His jaw was square and solid, rising up to small, low ears, and his brows were thick and linear. His eyes glistened as he looked at her, and though he was not yet drunk, she could see the slight flush in his cheeks that meant he was getting nearer. ‘By myself?’ she answered back in confusion. She glanced across the table to where Brother James was sitting, his expression unreadable. She didn’t know what else to say.

‘Yeah,’ chimed in a man that might have been his twin brother, except for the lack of beard, and a broad nose that flared widely at the nostrils. ‘Travelling by yourself must be lonely. Why don’t you let us join you?’

‘But I’m not-’

‘Monks don’t count,’ the first man said, and he sat himself down on the table’s edge, effectively blocking her view to James. ‘They’re hardly men at all.’

The third man, who was a good way smaller and more weasel-like than his friends, chortled. ‘Might as well travel with a boy and his toy sword.’

‘Oi gents!’ the barman called out, jogging towards them with speed that wobbled his gut. ‘I have many more tables if you don’t wish to stay at yours, let me lead you to one-’

‘We’re fine here,’ the wide-nostrilled one told him with false humour. ‘Just making new friends.’

‘We don’t need more friends.’

The sentence was as cold as ice, and although it was not spoken loudly, it froze a couple of nearby conversations into silence.

The mismatched man stood slowly; the table groaned as it was relieved of its weight. He turned, beefing himself up as he did so, and stared down at the monk still sitting passively in his seat. ‘Did you hear that, boys?’ he jeered to his companions. ‘The monk’s got all the friends he needs.’

‘Aww, isn’t that too bad,’ the ferret-faced man answered. ‘But I’m sure we’re not too disappointed. It’s not really him we want to be friends with, anyway.’

‘Lads, please!’ The barman was wringing his hands in anxiety. ‘I’m sorry, Brother James, I am. They’re travellers, they’re not from around here, they don’t understand...’

‘Oh, we understand,’ the stocky, beardless one interrupted. Strangely, this time his voice was flat and serious, with only a hint of a slur. ‘A monk travelling with a girl? You’re gonna turn her into a nun, aren’t you!’

‘She’ll be an initiate, yes,’ Brother James told him smoothly. ‘Our order will find ways for her to serve Our Lord’s purpose here on Earth. Do you have a problem with the work we do for the Lord?’ His words sounded as dangerous as a blade.

The old, round barman looked as though he were about to pass out.

With a quick glance around, the beardless man checked that his fellows were beside him still; then, drawing courage from their presence, he leaned over the monk once more. ‘You know what... Yeah, I guess I do. We’re lacking girls enough for marriage in our villages. Wouldn’t be astounded to hear it were the same all over. And here you are, hauling off pretty prizes like this...’ He took a moment to rake his eyes over Olivia, and she felt herself shudder under his scrutiny, disgusted. ‘And you’re going to lock them away! The Church is-’

A gasp went around the room; the rant fell quiet as the man realised that activity throughout the whole tavern had stilled and their little group was the centre of attention.

James had not intruded on the man’s speech; but now it was silent he gracefully rose to his feet. Olivia found herself holding her breath, waiting for what would happen next.

There was a strange, moseying casualness in the Brother’s step as he took the couple of paces to stand in front of the other man. He was, she realised, only a touch taller than she herself. Standing almost nose-to-nose with the tall stranger, their height difference should have been obvious; but somehow, Brother James was exuding a confidence, a power, that made the blond seem to shrink.

James reached out his hand suddenly, and the man flinched a little; but the monk merely took hold of a flap of his vest, adjusted it so it fell right against the man’s chest, and smoothed it down. This invasion of space and mocking assumption of intimacy visibly shook the man, who could do nothing but stand with eyes wide.

‘Are you a Christian?’ James finally asked into the silence. Though softly spoken, the words hung heavy in the air.

Every person in the tavern heard it.

Even the wind stilled in anticipation of the answer.

‘I didn’t mean-’ started the blond, but the heated glares from around the room stopped him. ‘Y-yes!’ he said instead. ‘Yes, of course. Of course!’

Brother James tilted his head to one side, reaching out to touch the man’s clothes again. ‘You were stepping a little – close – to – blasphemy, there,’ he said, his voice taking on a high sing-song quality. With every emphasis, he tapped one long index finger against the middle of the man’s chest. Then he leaned in, like he was about to divulge a secret. ‘You know what the penalty for blasphemy is, don’t you?’ he whispered sinisterly.

An intake of breath, almost a sob. ‘I-I didn’t mean...’ The man trailed off.

No one spoke.

The monk tilted his head to the other side. ‘I’ll ask again – what’s the penalty for blasphemy?’ He waited for a response, then when none came, he grabbed the man’s tunic near the neck and pulled him in so they were looking eye to eye. ‘Tell me!’ he snarled.

‘Death!’ squeaked the man; and then he staggered away a few steps, helped by a strong push from the monk. He looked terrified. His companions retreated with him, fear on their features too.

It would have been hard, on the other hand, to tell that James had ever been anything but mild-mannered his entire life by just looking at him now; his countenance was placid and calm. ‘Beheading, specifically,’ he said conversationally, almost bored-sounding, his voice projected out to the entire room. ‘A case of blasphemy is taken very seriously by the Church.’ He paused a second, looking the man up and down. ‘I suppose it’s lucky, then, that no blasphemy has taken place tonight,’

The man and his companions all blinked in unison, frozen in place and staring in perplexity at the monk.

Then Brother James turned on his heel, strolled back to his seat and leisurely sat down. ‘This stew is divine, don’t you think, Miss Olivia?’ he asked.

This seemed to be the signal that the spectacle was over, for everyone busied themselves in their huddled conversations once again, pointedly ignoring the strange monk and his charge. Olivia watched as the three troublemakers disappeared out the door, muttering amongst themselves and throwing glares over their shoulders at the pair of them. She got a chill when the bearded one’s eyes met her once more before vanishing out of view. ‘Divine, yes,’ she said distractedly, then looked down at her bowl. The brown, lumpy mixture was now cold and congealing.

She had suddenly lost her appetite.

 

Olivia lay back in the small bed, staring up at the ceiling blankly while her fingers traced the edges of the rough bedsheets. Brother James had led her to the sparse, almost cupboard-like room, bid her goodnight, and retired to his room with a saucy parting remark that he was “right next door, should you… _need_ anything.”

That must have been hours ago. By her reckoning it must have just passed midnight – some sound still filtered up from the bar below, however there were still drunken voices and occasional bar chants. Therefore it couldn’t be more than an hour after midnight; any singing that happened after one on the clock was performed solely in slurs, she knew this from her father’s tavern.

Though she had never felt more tired in her life, sleep was not coming easily to her, and thoughts were flitting like moths through her mind. It still didn’t feel real; she was going to become a nun. She might never see her family again. And her future… Well, she’d never felt more unsure in her life. She’d seen them in the sanatoriums before, and she knew they often ran the schools, but in fact she was not entirely sure what the role of a nun was. What did they do? Did they really always wear their head coverings? Maybe they were bald underneath! She really hoped they would not make her shave her head.

Her thoughts were becoming more jumbled as tiredness finally began to drag her eyes closed… but then she heard noises in the corridor. Whispering, slightly drunken scuffling, and a loud “shhhhh!” as footsteps moved past. Her brow furrowed a little in annoyance; of course it would be just as she was drifting off. Obviously some late-night revellers retiring for the night.

The door of the room to the left of her creaked as it opened, and she rolled over with a sigh, trying to bury her head under the pillow. Hopefully the drink would knock the men out quickly. But then she heard a confused fragment of their conversation… “Wait… must be the one next door.”

And then there was a rattling which startled her. She sat up in her bed, wondering if she should call out that the room was occupied, but unwilling to wake others in the inn.

They couldn’t get through the door anyway, she had locked it –

The door swung open.

In her shock, Olivia didn’t even cry out as the burly men entered her room, backlit from the lamps in the corridor; she just clutched the bedsheet close around her. By the time her situation had registered, one of the men had cupped her mouth with his giant, smothering paw, and when she reached to claw at his hand, he used his other to catch her wrists and hold them to her. He settled himself behind her, his warm breath tickling her ear, and pressed tightly up against her back.

The other man, for there were two, closed the door with an air of carefulness, blocking out the corridor’s light again. Olivia struggled against her captor, but his grip may as well have been iron manacles around her wrists; she was held firmly in place, helpless to do anything but listen to the second man’s footsteps draw closer and closer.

After what seemed like an eternity, the sound ceased, and she knew the man was standing directly in front of her; she felt him lean down, and could feel his warm, ale-soaked breath caressing her face. She flinched away, only for the man holding her to tighten his grip and force her towards the one in front of her.

Finally, a gruff voice spoke. ‘Hello again, pretty lady.’

In that moment, Olivia could see the scene clearly, although her eyes still hadn’t adjusted to the light. The bearded man from earlier stood before her, this she knew for certain; his voice had the same swagger and lilt, even if it was more swaggered and lilting with the additional alcohol he had consumed since they had seen one another a few hours before. That meant the man behind her had to be his beardless twin, for the weasel-faced crony could hardly have held her as solidly as this man did. She tried crying out again, in the hopes of awakening Brother James, but the hand around her mouth muffled all her sounds, and she received a painful warning shake for her troubles.

The bearded man chuckled. ‘Do you really want to do that? See, far as I can tell you have two options. Option one, you manage to make some noise; good for you. And your little monk boyfriend comes running.’ He now moved in closer, his hand reaching out in a clumsy caress down her face. ‘We put him down, kick his fuckin’ teeth in, and then make him watch what we do to you.’

Olivia squealed and squirmed, terrified. She could feel the man behind her chuckling darkly. ‘Don’t think she likes that much,’ he said in her ear, his voice a deep bass.

‘She shouldn’t,’ said the bearded twin. ‘See, these churchy types, they’re pretty particular about certain aspects of a woman. Have certain expectations about a lady’s… experience.’

‘Mm. I don’t mind a bit of experience on a lady,’ the man behind her whispered coarsely, and she shuddered as she felt him nuzzle the back of her neck and draw in a breath of her scent. ‘Been a while since I’ve walked ‘cross fresh snow, though.’

The bearded twin obviously felt he was missing the action, because he suddenly sat on the bed next to her and started stroking circles into her thigh. ‘So, option one is no good for you. Imagine, kicked out of the nunnery before you even get there. You’ll be branded a whore, you know. Promised to God, but couldn’t keep your legs shut even for just the trip there.’

Olivia struggled again, and a sob escaped her, pulled painfully from the depths of her chest. What would her family do if the church _did_ kick her out? Trisha’s marriage would be off; her father wouldn’t be able to provide for them all. She probably _would_ end up a whore. And a bad whore, if the way men avoided her was anything to go by. A tear leaked from her eye, unbidden; as soon as it left her, she wished she could call it back. She could not let these men break her – they could take her honour, but she would keep her pride.

She felt bristles against her soft cheek, winced as they scraped her skin. Then, that dreaded voice in her ear, whispering, ‘Do you want to hear option two?’

Sullenly, she nodded, the movement minute against the pressure of the hand at her mouth.

‘Option two.’ In the dimness of the room, she saw a glint as the man’s tongue snaked out and moistened his lips. ‘We treat you right for an hour or so. Show you what you’ll be missing. No fuss, no screaming for dear little brother-monk; we have some fun with you, and we do it quietly. Then we leave, and no one is the wiser.’ He shifted his hand a little higher on her thigh; Olivia fought the urge to shriek, finding that her legs were trembling. The man brought his face close into hers again and, after placing a lingering, gentle kiss at her jawline, he lined up his lips so his next words fell directly into her ear. ‘So?’ he breathed. ‘What do you say?’

His beardless twin breathed at her other earlobe, ‘Yeah, girl, what do you say?’

The two moved in tandem, the man behind her pulling her back into him and releasing his left hand from her mouth in favour of groping at her chest; the man in front began pulling at her nightgown, clumsily trying to pull it over her head. Olivia writhed under their touch, desperate to pull herself free. She couldn’t think straight, was being overwhelmed by the sensation of hands, hands all over her, no matter how she struggled; and she wanted to call out, wanted to keep quiet, wanted to be anywhere but here.

_Should you need anything…_

‘BROTHER JAMES!’

She hadn’t meant to cry out, didn’t truly believe the monk could help her, but the words had escaped her in a moment of complete despair. Both her assailants paused for a second, the beardless twin hissing ‘Shit’ and clamping his hand around her mouth once again. The bearded man sat still, listening intently; but then he relaxed. ‘Doesn’t change anything,’ he decided darkly; he leaned in close to her again. ‘And we were being so very nice.’

Then there was a _thump_ , followed by a solid clunk as something hit the floor. There was a whirlwind of confusion as the man behind her pushed her aside as he leapt to stand, and she scrambled to right herself. Pulling her nightgown back down over her knees, she gained her feet and put her back against the wall, straining to make out the scene in front of her. The figures of two large men were visible as outlines by the small amount of light coming through under the still-closed door. She heard the swish of material dragging across floorboards, and the lightest of footsteps tapping towards her. Whoever it was, they were in a black cloak with the hood hanging heavy over their face. ‘Brother James?’ Olivia asked uncertainly.

No response, the figure merely continued towards her, like a ghoulish apparition.

‘Please,’ she mumbled.

 The figure stopped directly before her. She was nearly convinced that, with one step more, it would walk right through her.

‘Please.’ A whisper now.

This time, it let out a low, soothing “Shhh…” It was eerie and unnerving. After the long day, the confrontation in the tavern and the terror of the attack, Olivia felt drained and numb; it was all she could do to keep standing, so she let the shushing calm her, leaned back against the wall and blankly gazed at the black figure in front of her. ‘Shhh…’ it said again, close to her now.

Then the figure lifted one hand solemnly. Before she could wonder if she should take the hand, the figure had blown a powder into her face, and suddenly she knew no more.


End file.
